


A Taste of Honey

by the_sock_index



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dubious Consent, Gags, Gangbang, Infantilism, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post Hypnotic Suggestions, Rope Bondage, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dying of a rare, tropical disease and sends John to Doctor Culverton Smith as the only man who might be able to save him. But all does not go according to plan. (Modern re-telling of The Dying Detective).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/gifts).



> Written for the [Rant Meme Fic Exchange](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10843.html) for fireofangels. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about this fic whatsoever.

Sherlock stands in the kitchen, braced against the worktop and stares out into the sitting room. He can still see the marks--physical and otherwise--all over John; the white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, the unnaturally straight posture that even his years in the army can't quite explain, the new scars that radiate like a starburst from his left shoulder--decorative accents to the old wound that brought John to London in the first place.

Perhaps more unnerving is what he sees in his mind palace. He knows the shape of the blade that made those scars, and he knows what it looks like, how the sharpened razorblade would have sliced through warm, pale skin, how the blood would bubble up and slide out, over, off, dripping and splattering on the cold stone ground.

He's seen the scars, remembers the blood spatters, cannot unsee the superficial cuts.

Cannot unsee the marks that didn't linger, sticking to John and his skin, stains that refuse to come out.

And yet...

Sherlock's eyes drift over to the new addition to their kitchen. The jar sits innocuously in the corner of the worktop furthest from the hob, the pale yellow ceramic easy to overlook. Most do, in fact, but it stands out like a beacon on a dark night to him. It shouldn’t--it’s unremarkable--but his eyes are often drawn to it anyway, tracing the outline of the bees lovingly etched on it.

The sound of the kettle switching off jerks him from his contemplation of the jar and he quickly pours the piping hot water into two mugs--each with its own teabag. John typically takes milk in his tea and Sherlock carefully pours it in until it reaches the amount that John favours.

He leaves his own tea black and leaves it on the worktop, picking up John’s and turning to walk into the sitting room before he stops, hesitating.

John, undoubtedly brought out of his contemplation of the middle distance by the clicking of the kettle, is unsettled. His deathgrip on the chair hasn't changed, but his leg is bouncing up and down and he's fidgeting. His fingers twitch and he licks his lips repeatedly, as though they're suddenly dry.

He keeps his head forward, doesn’t look around, and it’s that which decides Sherlock. He carefully sets the mug down and reaches for the yellow jar, opening it. He doesn’t breathe in through his nose, having made that mistake once before, but instead pulls out the tiny silver spoon and carefully drizzles a small amount of the golden liquid into John’s tea before replacing the spoon in the jar and fitting the ceramic lid back in place.

Using the teabag, he carefully swirls the beige liquid in the mug before discarding it. Another glance up shows John’s fidgeting has grown worse and his hands are starting to shake. From here, Sherlock can see a bead of sweat forming at one temple.

He doesn’t have to do this. Maybe this is the time to be cruel, to withhold. But he’s experienced the sickening, cramping sensation himself, has felt the drive, the desire. His hands shook like that, his face paled like that.

He can’t wish that on John.

Other things, though...

He knows what will happen when he steps forward, stands in front of John and holds the mug out to him.

It’s a gnawing sensation in his gut, butterflies flapping their wings or perhaps something less innocent that flutters and swoops within him when helpless dark eyes look up at him--look through him--wide and unfocussed.

“Tea, John,” he says, voice low and thick.

Trembling fingers tentatively reach forward, uncertain and shy, hovering in the air.

***

_Dying. Don’t come home. - SH_

John blinks at the text and frowns. He’s torn between giving into the initial burst of panic at the thought of Sherlock dying of god only knows what and the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatics.

Leave it to Sherlock, after all, to make a mountain out of a molehill while John is supposed to be participating in mandatory safeguarding children training.

After a brief moment of dithering, he responds.

_Of what?_

He’s just put the mobile back in his pocket when he receives another text.

_Rare, highly contagious tropical disease. - SH_

John stares, at a complete loss.

_Almost incurable. - SH_

He’s half tempted to call the bastard and yell at him for being so vague or beg him for more information, but he takes another steadying breath and limits himself to, _Almost?_

_23 Lower Burke Street, Notting Hill. Dr Culverton Smith. Only man who may be able to help. -SH_

John is up from his seat and out of the door before anyone can stop him.

***

He’s not certain what to expect when he arrives at the address that Sherlock has texted. What he finds is a quiet street in with immaculate landscaping and well kept and maintained buildings that house expensive flats.

John contemplates his mobile and toys with texting Sherlock to demand what, exactly, he’s doing here (other than saving his best friend’s life), but before he can commit to sending such a text, the door in front of him opens.

Startled, he shifts back a couple of steps to get a better look at the man in the doorway, who appears just as surprised to see John. 

The man is of average height--taller than John, certainly, but shorter than Sherlock--with dull brown hair and dark eyes. His skin is pale and he’s slightly broader than John, with darker hair on his lightly muscled arms. John is no Sherlock Holmes, though, and beyond the fact that he resides in what must be an expensive street, he can deduce nothing further about the man.

“Doctor Smith?”

The man blinks at him in surprise before his brows lower and his eyes narrow. “What?”

“My name is John Watson and I believe you know my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

The change that comes over the man is as quick as a summer storm--eyes widening and lips parting in shock--before the man composes himself. His eyes are guarded and he clutches at the doorknob. “Yes?” he draws out, noncommittal.

Sherlock has given him no instruction on how to approach this man, whether he is an ally or an enemy or even how he may be able to help. John has no choice but to go for honesty.

“He’s dying,” he says bluntly, eyes scanning the man in front of him, “apparently of something rare and tropical.”

Doctor Smith’s mouth twitches, but he continues staring at John.

“Please, if there’s any way that you can help save him…”

Doctor Smith stares at him for a long moment, time stretched thin and taut between them, before nodding once. “Please come in, John. I think I should hear more.”

John sighs in relief, enters the house, and thinks nothing of the sound of the door shutting behind him.

***

Sherlock holds the mug of tea out to John, who takes it carefully between shaking hands. The beige liquid sloshes over the side of the mug and Sherlock leans forward, holds John’s hands steadier between his own, and watches intently as John brings the mug up to his lips.

***

Doctor Smith’s sitting room turned office is situated in the back of the flat, away from the street. The decor is dark wood and rich, jewel-toned fabrics, with very little light. It puts John in mind of a hunting lodge, or an old fashioned gentleman’s club.

“Have a seat,” Doctor Smith says, gesturing to a stuffed chair set in front of a chessboard. “Would you like a drink?”

It’s on the tip of John’s tongue to refuse, to try to speed things along, but a look at the other man stops him. He is asking a favour of a total stranger; the least he can do is not anger him to the point of refusing to help.

“Uh, tea please.”

Doctor Smith nods and turns his back. “Why have you sought me out?”

“Sherlock said you may be the only man capable of helping.”

John knows his flattery has hit the mark when Doctor Smith subtly preens. “Indeed. I, of course, have heard of Sherlock Holmes. I suppose I should take it as a compliment that he has heard of me.”

John wisely stays silent, staring around the room and wishing that there were more light.

The background noise of glass clinking together and the low whoosing of the water boiling is the only sound for a moment, before Doctor Smith turns back and sits across the chessboard from him. “Do you like games, John?”

John blinks at the nonsequitur, the hairs on the back of his neck raising and something shivery stealing over his skin. “No more or less than the next man,” he says neutrally, even as his heart pumps a bit faster. He doesn’t dare examine the sensation closer to work out the reasons behind it.

“I enjoy games,” Doctor Smith says. “And I’m very good at them.”

John nods, folds his hands together. Tension is thick and tight between them. “I’m sure that’s interesting, but I fail to see--”

“But it’s not very fun without something at stake.”

And suddenly it is clear to John, just where this conversation is going, and he narrows his eyes, even as he frantically ponders what choices he has.

“You mean Sherlock’s life.”

Doctor Smith smiles at him. “Something like that.”

***

The shaking in John’s hands subsides as he gulps down the tea, unmindful of the temperature of the beverage. His eyes slide closed in relief, or maybe ecstasy, and something dark flutters in Sherlock’s stomach.

Guilt, he thinks. Believes.

***

The sound of the kettle switching off breaks the moment and Doctor Smith stands up to prepare the tea.

“How do you like it?”

John clears his throat. “A splash of milk, please.”

“No sugar or honey?” Doctor Smith asks, sounding surprised.

“No, thank you,” John says firmly.

“Hmm,” Doctor Smith hums, before turning to John and handing him a cuppa. “This is my favoured brand, imported. You may find it a bit sweet to taste,” he warns.

John nods and takes a small sip to be polite before setting the cup down. It’s a nice black tea, nothing particularly unusual, though it is sweeter than he typically prefers. It’s not so sweet as to be undrinkable, but it could stand a bit more milk.

“Are you going to help?”

“That rather depends on you,” Doctor Smith says, taking a sip of his own tea. 

“How so?”

Doctor Smith smiles and takes another sip of his tea, raising his eyebrows. “What is it worth to you?”

“Are you mad?” John demands, clenching his fists and his jaw. “Sherlock is my best friend. I would do anything for him, especially when his life is on the line.”

Doctor Smith smiles at him, then, a full smile that is at once soft and terrifying. “Marvelous. Well, have a cup of tea with me and we’ll discuss how I can help.”

John breathes out a sigh, though he is not at all relieved.

“And that’s it?” he asks suspiciously, because this entire conversation has him on edge.

“That’s it,” Doctor Smith responds, still smiling, though less brightly.

John keeps his eyes on the man, sure that there is more going on here. He’s certainly not stupid, but he can’t quite put his finger on exactly why he knows his paranoia is justified. He just knows it is, that there’s some sort of catch. Still, if drinking the damn tea will move things along, he’ll do it to be able to get Sherlock the help he needs.

He takes a large gulp of tea and ignores the disdainful sniff that Doctor Smith makes in response.

“What are his symptoms?” Doctor Smith asks, straightening in his chair.

John blinks and frowns at him, opens his mouth to speak and is embarrassed to discover that he never once demanded more information from Sherlock. “He’s dying,” he says sharply, and takes another gulp of tea. “When he told me that you were the only one who could help him, I didn’t exactly ask for more information.”

“Hmm,” Doctor Smith says, his lips quirking up into a small smile. “Understandable.”

John glares at him and finishes his cuppa, setting it pointedly on the chessboard.

“Give me a moment,” Doctor Smith responds, raising an eyebrow. “You know, it is a good thing your friend directed you to me. I have always had an interest in rare diseases and their cures. Once, when I was travelling amongst the people of the Torres Strait, they taught me all manner of diseases they must battle with home remedies…”

John finds it difficult to concentrate, Smith’s voice sounding less human and more like a swarm of bees buzzing around his head and in his ears. He wants to interrupt, but he can’t get a word in edgewise while the Doctor goes on at length about his adventures.

In fact, John gives up listening after some time, letting the words wash over him without worrying about their content, more preoccupied by the tingling in his lips and the fact that the tea was far too sweet. He’s parched, his mouth dry as a desert. He licks at his lips to moisten them and blinks at the hint of sweetness he can still taste. It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.

“...but I’m sure you’d rather hear that some other time, John. Now that I’ve finished my tea, perhaps you should go home.”

“What?” John blinks, suddenly aware that Doctor Smith is smiling at him, holding out two vials. He takes them automatically, staring uncomprehendingly at them. His head is beginning to ache and his dry lips and mouth are incredibly irritating.

“Here you are,” Doctor Smith says briskly. “Give him the larger vial first, as that tends to have greater success. If that fails to work within a day, give him the second, smaller vial.”

“But...what…” John trails off, blinking rapidly. “Aren’t you going to examine him yourself?”

“John,” Doctor Smith tuts, his tone mildly patronising. “You’re a doctor. I’m sure I can trust you to administer to him on your own?”

“Well, I, yes, of course,” John says, disoriented. He normally would take offence at being talked down to, but he can’t help but be appreciative of the compliment. He’s very confused. To hide it, he stands quickly, eager to leave.

“Marvelous,” Doctor Smith murmurs. He stands and leads John to the door. “I am glad to help your friend,” he says, patting John’s back. “And I hope to see you soon under more pleasant circumstances very soon.”

John nods absentmindedly, hands clutching at the small bottles in his hands. The door shuts behind him once more but he has other things on his mind.

***

“Better?” Sherlock murmurs, staring intently at John.

John nods slowly, eyes wide, and smacks his lips.

***

“Are you fucking insane?!” John shouts, fists clenched.

Sherlock is staring into his microscope, very much not dying of a rare tropical disease, and utterly ignoring John’s anger and upset.

“Of course not,” Sherlock responds. “But it was the most expedient way to get you into his house in a believable way.” He pauses and John idly wonders if Sherlock is aware that part of John’s brain is detailing the exact way in which he will beat Sherlock to a bloody pulp.

“Of course, I’d counted on you to bring him here so that we’d be able to pin the Walker murder on him, but this will have to suffice for now.”

Evidently not.

In an effort to not actually commit murder, John spins on his heel and marches up to his bedroom and begins throwing a few things into a hold-all. He has to get out of here before there’s bloodshed, plain and simple.

When he stomps down the stairs a few moments later, Sherlock’s head pops up from the microscope.

“John! Where are you going?”

“Harry’s,” he grits out, not bothering to stop and sure that Sherlock won’t follow, dressed in a dressing gown as he is.

“But the case!”

John ignores him and exits the flat, marching towards the entrance to the Tube. Sherlock wouldn’t dare follow him there.

***

“Would you like more tea?”

John nods, eyes out of focus, tongue licking at his lips. He’s so thirsty.

Sherlock begins towards the kitchen but stops after a few paces, turns to look at John who is watching him with a vaguely hopeful expression. He bites his lip; the dark something twisting tighter in his stomach, and he turns and continues towards the kitchen and the yellow jar.

***

After a few hours of walking--because going to Harry’s is more of a punishment for himself than one for Sherlock--he finds himself once again in Notting Hill and in front of number twenty three.

It’s dark outside and growing cold and he does need a place to stay.

And, besides that, Doctor Smith _had_ said that it would be nice to meet again under better circumstances.

And, well, these aren’t better circumstances but beggars can’t be choosers.

When he rings the bell and Doctor Smith opens the door, he seems pleasantly surprised. “Well, that was quick.”

“Erm, yeah, sorry--”

“Oh, no, no, where are my manners? Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

“Here let me take that. Can I make you a cuppa? You look done in.”

“Thanks,” John says, with real feeling. “I’d love one.”

Later, when his eyes are drooping and his arms and legs feel leaden, he thinks Doctor Smith leans in close enough that he can feel his warm exhales over his cheeks. “There we are,” he thinks he hears. “Long journey ahead. Time for little boys to be asleep.”

He’s probably just dreaming.

***

Sherlock drizzles a generous portion of dark golden honey into the next cup and takes it out to John, who reaches for it eagerly.

Sherlock holds it back and waits for John to refocus. “What do you say?”

John looks mournfully up at him. “Please?”

***

It is completely black when he awakes. There are ropes around his arms and all-encompassing silence assaults his ears.

“Hello?”

“Shh, John,” he hears, his blood freezing in his veins. “The game is starting and it’s not your turn yet.”

And with that, strong fingers force his mouth wide and something huge--far too large to fit comfortably--jabs into his mouth until he’s gagging, choking, eyes watering.

There’s a sweetness on his tongue that’s vaguely familiar and his stomach gurgles hungrily. It isn’t long before he’s sucking on the gag lodged into his mouth.

He’s so preoccupied with trying to identify the flavour, trying to reason why it tastes so _good_ , that he doesn’t notice the fingers that run through his hair or the soothing words that buzz through his brain.

***

“Much better,” Sherlock praises and John perks up slightly, sits straighter and puffs his chest out. In reward, Sherlock hands over the mug and watches as John drinks it down faster than before.

***

Awareness fades in and out. The only constants are the sweet taste of honey on his tongue and the voice that whispers encouragement, that entices him with promises of rewards if he would just give in.

***

“Don’t you want this to end?”

The ropes dig into John’s wrists and ankles and the room is cold enough to cause him almost constant shudders and shivers without tipping over the edge into hypothermia. He has long since ceased to struggle against his bindings, but they still chafe every time he feels the need to shift.

The nudity bothered him before--time passes in such strange fashion that he may have been sitting here for minutes or months--but it no longer does. Even the bindings--agonising though they are--are not his main concern.

It’s that he cannot stay still.

“You must be thirsty.”

Yes, yes he is. But more than that, John’s hands shake and he cannot sit still and the goat hair cushion is causing painful welts and rashes on the backs of his legs and between his thighs. All of his skin itches and his lips and tongue tingle in want and need and he cannot stop salivating, still embarrassed when the drool spurts out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin.

“You can make this stop with just a word. Well, two to be precise.”

He cannot. Knows he cannot. If he tries, if he begs, it will be as if John Watson ceases to exist.

But…

“This will all be over if you say please like a good boy and ask Daddy to make this stop. If you’re a good boy, I’ll untie you and see to your wounds, put some cool and soothing aloe vera on the rope burn and the rashes.”

He wants…

“If you say please, you can lie on silk sheets and have the cuts and the burns tended to. You can even have a bath and get all clean.”

He needs…

“If you say please,” the voice continues, soothing, low, “I’ll let you have some honey.”

_Please._

He needs it. Oh, he needs it so much.

His body slumps and tears leak down his face, even if he doesn’t know exactly _why_ he’s crying.

“P-Pl…” he tries to say please, tries to beg, because it will all be over and he wants that, but more than anything, he wants, he _needs_ \--

“You can do it,” the voice says again. It sounds different than he remembers--or thinks he remembers; where once it was all harsh and nasal tones that grated on his nerves it now sounds smooth as silk, sticky as treacle, and sweet as sugar.

“Please.”

“Good boy,” the voice says to him, so warm and wonderful and his body sags as hands brush over his forehead and cup his chin and cheeks. He looks blearily up and shudders, the world dim and out of focus.

“There, there, my boy. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Please,” he gasps. 

“Please what?”

“Please….I…please, Daddy,” he begs and is rewarded by a warm finger, coated in sticky gold, pushing into his mouth.

He sucks hard, as hard as he can, tongue chasing the taste that he can’t get enough of.

“There’s a good boy,” the voice says, soft and fond. He closes his eyes and whimpers.

“First lesson, my boy: good boys get rewarded.”

He sighs, breath noisy as he breathes out of his nose, and he goes boneless. He doesn’t think.

***

The first lesson, he’s told, is the easy part.

On the first day of this brand new life--when he has shed the baggage of the past, cast off the liferaft that had left him drifting and bobbing on an unfamiliar and unfriendly sea--it’s like reaching the shore. He’s wobbly and uncertain, squints into the light, and clings to the familiar in an unfamiliar landscape.

His daddy helps him.

“The first lesson,” Daddy says, when he is finally unbound and strong arms lift him up, “is that good boys get rewarded.”

This is an easy lesson, he thinks, as he’s far too tired and strung out, too dozy and silly to do anything other than what he is told.

He holds still when they deposit him into a large tub of warm water, stays quiet when they wash off the blood, and acquiesces when two large hands reach in and bump up against the raw skin of his inner thighs.

By the time his bath is done, he blearily thinks that following orders and being a good boy will be easy.

It’s not, though. Because after the bath, when he is carried to Daddy’s room, he is dressed in a starched white shirt that itches and short trousers of cheap wool that scratch at skin that’s already been abused.

He squirms and sweats when Daddy makes him sit on the bed and that makes it worse but he can’t help it because everything itches and is uncomfortable.

“Hold still, boy,” Daddy scolds him, frowning, and he desperately _tries_ \--really, he does--but it’s no use.

He whimpers, desperate to force his body to obey, but then he catches sight of the yellow jar on Daddy’s bedside table with the cheerful bees and he knows what’s in there. He needs it.

_Needs_ it.

“No,” Daddy says sternly, catching up his chin in a bruising grip and forcing him to look up into Daddy’s eyes. “It looks like we’ll be moving onto lesson two much earlier than I anticipated.”

He trembles and squirms--winces because it hurts--and sniffles. “Daddy?” he whimpers, only the second time he’s said it aloud.

“Bad boys are punished.”

***

Daddy takes away his honey and no matter how he begs, pleads, or cries, Daddy makes him sit in time out without even a hint of honey. His hands are tied behind his back so he cannot get to the stickiness that coats his fingers and he sits there for so long, crying inconsolably, that when Daddy finally unties him and gathers his little boy into his arms, he promises never to be bad again.

***

“You’ve been so good for daddy,” Daddy says, stroking his hair while his boy sucks on his bottle, eyes glazed and cheeks pink. He would smile at Daddy, or coo in contentment, but the nipple in his mouth stops him from doing so. As does the pleasant haze of golden nectar sliding down his throat.

He does want to be good for Daddy, wants to be Daddy’s little angel, because when he’s good he’s rewarded--lesson number one--and when he’s bad he’s punished, which was lesson number two and he _hated_ that one because he always feels so sick when he’s punished.

Daddy takes his bottle away and he never wants that to happen again.

“Spread your little legs for Daddy,” Daddy tells him, so he does, happily and hazily. Daddy always gives him dessert after a good fucking and he always makes sure to drizzle extra honey on top, which is his absolutely favourite.

When Daddy finishes inside of him and plugs him up to keep all of Daddy’s seed inside, he strokes his little boy’s hair. “I have a special treat for you.”

His boy looks up eagerly, mouth popping off the bottle, drool and honey sliding down his cheeks. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Daddy wants you to meet some friends of his.”

His boy bites his lip, uncertain and shy, but he stays silent.

“And if you’re very good, there will be a second helping of dessert in it for you,” Daddy murmurs and is pleased to see his boy beam hopefully.

“With extra honey?”

Daddy grins. “Always.”

***

“What do you say?” Sherlock asks and John bites his lip.

“Thank you.”

“Very good. I think you deserve a reward.”

John’s eyes light up and, when Sherlock offers him a hand up, he takes it eagerly and follows Sherlock into his room.

***

He is sprawled out on his back, but this is unimportant.

He is naked, but this is also unimportant.

The only thing that is important, the only thought in his mind, is the desperate _need_. It claws inside of his stomach, tickles his throat, makes his skin itch and tingle and his eyes water.

He has to have it, needs it, needs more, and he would do _anything_ \--

“Harder,” a gruff voice says from above him and he obeys, wants to obey, sucks harder and deeper to please while chasing his own need. He’s sucked most of the sweetness from the cock in his mouth, but it’s still there, tantalizing, amidst the musk and sweat, mixing with the salty taste of precum.

It drives him on, the subtle sweetness, the promise of gold. He wants it, wants the stickiness to coat his lips and his throat, needs it to slide into his belly and stay there.

He’d do anything…

He doesn’t care what they do--pays it no mind when his weak legs are lifted and parted, hardly notices the pain of penetration or the sting of salty semen all over the shallow cuts that litter his chest.

All he cares about is _more_ and these men have promised it to him if he behaves and does as he’s told without complaint.

He will, he’s ever so good. 

“Such a slut,” someone says, and there are grunts of agreement and groans that make his stomach flutter with something like accomplishment. His heart beats faster in his chest and he moans around the cock in his throat.

One of them rakes their fingers down his flanks, over his thighs, but he simply spreads his legs wider and keeps his throat open as he’s been taught. He’s learned all of his lessons so well and he’s eager to show them because they’ve promised him what he needs.

Wants to show them just how good of a boy he can be.

***

He doesn’t remember much when the local police burst in and arrest everyone. He’d been too fixated on clutching tightly to his bottle.

***

“You’ve been very good,” Sherlock says, tracing a finger over John’s cheek. He looks down at his friend, who is sat upon the bed, waiting.

“Thank you,” John says, with a sunny smile.

“About that reward,” Sherlock says, taking a deep breath and ignoring the fluttering and twisting in his stomach. He reaches for his zip and begins to pull it down.

The way John drools and the soft, hazy look of his eyes is irresistible.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Almost as irresistible as the warm, wet, eager mouth that swallows his prick to the root.

***

Sometimes a nightmare breaks through the golden wall of honey. It is dark and cold and he hears a voice, _Even when I’m gone, even if you’re rescued, you’ll never be the same. Your friends will use you as I do. They won’t be able to help themselves--especially not your so-called best friend.”_

When it happens, he wakes in a cold sweat and clings to his daddy, sucks the honey off his fingertips and sinks once more beneath the amber waves.


End file.
